


Break and Build

by radialarch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Friendship, Pining, magic?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/pseuds/radialarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes would rather have the truth.</p><p>written for <a href="http://augustbird.tumblr.com/post/34220899694/does-anyone-know-of-a-fic-where-sherlock-makes-a">this prompt</a>:<br/>does anyone know of a fic where sherlock makes a wish/casts a spell as a young boy to find someone who understands him and then he meets john and after they get along really well, he remembers the spell. and then he doesn’t want to because he’s terrified of john leaving but he goes about breaking the spell because he needs to know if john is there of his own free will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break and Build

**Author's Note:**

  * For [augustbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/augustbird/gifts).



> Love and thanks to Kitkat and Penguin, who (virtually) held my hand as I yelled at this fic. I couldn't have done it without you. Also to anons who endured many brit-pick questions - you know who you are.
> 
> Also, John doesn't come into this fic for like, a thousand words. Um?
> 
> ETA: [lily_winterwood](/user/lily_winterwood) has done a gorgeous cover [here](http://consultingsueslayer.tumblr.com/post/36004892827/todays-goodfic-sunday-read-is-break-and-build-by), please go flail at it! ♥

_When Sherlock is six years old, he sets Holmes Manor on fire._

" _Sh_ _erlock," Mycroft says once they're outside, disapproval and horror mingling in his voice. "What in the world were you doing?"_

_There's a smudge of chalk on Sherlock's nose, his bare feet stick out from his pyjama bottoms, and the smoky scent of sandalwood clings stubbornly to his hair. "Testing a hypothesis," he says, defiant._

" _Ah," Mycroft sighs._

* * *

Sherlock's eighteen and losing himself in the streets of Cambridge, mapping out the city's veins and capillaries; he studies types of concrete, tobacco ash, the curves of lips and backs as their owners spill maybe-secrets and he can always, _always_ tell when they're lying.

A dog-bite and anxious voice are what wakes him. "Are you okay?" the man asks. "God, I am so sorry." There are angry lines from the leash wrapped tightly around his right hand.

Sherlock looks down at the dog still lunging at him. "It's fine," he says, biting off the two words precisely. A crescent of blood is blazing on his ankle, but that doesn't prevent him from limping off.

"Wait!" The man calls. The dog barks just as insistently. "Let me take you to the A&E."

This is guilt, predictable and tiresome, but Sherlock lets Victor Trevor slide his shoulders under his arm and guide him to an over-bright waiting room anyway.

—

"I'm sorry," Victor says for the twelfth time.

"Don't be," Sherlock snaps. "What use is it, being sorry, if it doesn't motivate you to do anything other than to flutter about here uselessly?" Clear light slices through window. Sherlock frowns. There are the mould cultures to consider, blood samples time-stamped and ready for precipitation; meanwhile, the optimal recovery regimen demands that he stay off his feet. Minimum one week, maximum ten days. Sherlock winces at the lost time, but it can't be helped.

"Look, I thought-" Victor says softly, "if you needed to do anything, I could...help? Run errands for you or something."

That idea is absurd, of course — he'd lack the necessary precision. Yet.

Sherlock looks down at the swath of white at his ankle and considers what experiments may suffer the least from an error. "Fine," he says, folding up to reach for a notebook. "Stop by a chemist's. Get a pack of disposable gloves — polyvinyl chloride, not latex. Check the label. Also look for a disinfectant containing sodium metabisulfite. A small bottle will do. Next, visit this lab—" sketching the cross-streets in quick strokes "—and deliver this to the post-doctoral researcher, hmm, _here_. There are several x-rays you'll get back..."

The shadows are lying thick on the pavement when Victor comes back with a flat brown envelope in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. Sherlock leaves JSTOR open in his browser and heaves himself out of his chair.

"No, you shouldn't get up," Victor waves. "I have it. Where did you want me to put this?"

"The side table."

"Here." He leaves the bag where indicated and hands over the envelope. "Oh, also," he says, sheepishly shoving his hands into his pocket, "I, uh, called for takeaway."

Sherlock tilts his head. "I didn't ask for takeaway."

"No, um, yeah." A flush runs across Victor's neck, the tips of his ears. "But you looked like you could use a meal or two, so. If you don't want it," he adds hurriedly, "that's all right, I mean, I can just-"

"It's fine," Sherlock interrupts, and watches Victor's expression crack into relief.

"Good," he says, incredibly out of place in the midst of Sherlock's things. "Okay, good. Right."

Long after the scar on his ankle has faded off-white, Sherlock still lets Victor sprawl on his floor to mutter at organic chem while he browses arXiv.

—

There's something he's forgetting, something important, and if there were just a way to remember — to be more _efficient_ —

—

"Hey, Sherlock, how in the world did you manage to get scorch marks on—"

Sharp breath. Weight poised in between one step and the next.

"The answer to 'how' is blatantly obvious," Sherlock says from his chair, not bothering to open his eyes. "You're not blind; there's a Bunsen burner on the table. 'Why' is a marginally more interesting question—"

"Stop," Victor says, with a catch in his voice. "Shut up. Are you _high_?"

Sherlock considers this. "Not yet," he says, snapping upwards in a smooth motion to face Victor. "It stimulates the brain. Helps me think."

It's glorious, the things he can see like this: the flicker in Victor's eyes and clench of his jaw. The paint is flaking from the corner of the ceiling closest to the window and the afternoon sunlight filters perfectly through dust. There are novels woven into soft creases of cotton and rivers suspended in minute water droplets, and he can catch every last detail, know what it means.

"My father," Victor says tightly, a rough sound scraping from his throat.

Trevor senior, strong arms, tell-tale marks blurred onto the bends of his elbows. Simple. Obvious.

"I thought you were smarter than this. You. I. Do you even—no." Victor is shaking his head. "I'm not going to—I can't do this. I'm sorry."

The slam of a door is percussive, its frequency spectrum unappealing. Sherlock lies back down and contemplates instead the violin.

* * *

_When Sherlock is six years old, he sets Holmes Manor on fire._

" _Sherlock," Mycroft says once they'_ _re outside, disapproval and horror mingling in his voice. "What in the world were you doing?"_

_There's a smudge of chalk on Sherlock's nose, his bare feet stick out from his pyjama bottoms, and the smoky scent of sandalwood clings stubbornly to his hair. "Testing a hypothesis," he says, defiant._

" _Ah," Mycroft sighs, observing the movement of fluorescent yellow jackets in the darkness. "I assume you've learn_ _t something from this, at least."_

_Sherlock tilts his head in consideration and settles for a truth. "I won't do it again," he says, because he doesn't repeat his mistakes._

" _And the experiment?"_

_Sherlock fidgets, looking downwards. "I...don't know yet," he says, the words breathed out in an uncertain rush. "If. It worked."_

* * *

Everything is dull, grey, static, and he _wants_ —

It's too quiet.

—

"Hey, buddy." A smile, flat and peeling off at the edges. "I heard you can do this trick—"

"It's not a trick," Sherlock says, clipped, to Sebastian Wilkes: Eton-educated, banker's son (headed that way himself). He drinks too much and deals cocaine on the side (dependable, though unexceptional) but his real addiction is to power — to people.

"Sure," comes the reply, easy. "Whatever you want to call it. It's very impressive, at any rate."

"You want me to do you a favour," Sherlock says, but he doesn't turn away just yet; and the words keep coming, smooth and present.

"Why don't we call it a...business proposition," Sebastian suggests, leaning in like they're sharing a secret.

"It'll cost you," Sherlock says finally.

"I assumed," he nods with a studiedly casual shrug. "Come on, then, pal, there are a few people I'd like you to meet..."

—

"This is my friend, Sherlock Holmes—"

"Friend of mine."

"A friend."

Sebastian sounds sincere enough, but Sherlock's long since known the value of clear sight and a grasp of the real. Besides, exchange is hardly the worst thing to found a relationship upon.

—

Sebastian plucks at a web of connections and gets a job at Shad Sanderson; Sherlock climbs out of rehab and moves into a flat on Montague Street.

* * *

Trust is not a necessary part of collaboration. He spills ideas into a bleached-out skull, unguarded, but that's an anomaly; he shoves hard-edged words at everyone else, demands to be pushed right back.

* * *

_When Sherlock is six years old, he sets Holmes Manor on fire._

" _Sherlock," Mycroft says once they'_ _re outside, disapproval and horror mingling in his voice. "What in the world were you doing?"_

_There's a smudge of chalk on Sherlock's nose, his bare feet stick out from his pyjama bottoms, and the smoky scent of sandalwood clings stubbornly to his hair. "Testing a hypothesis," he says, defiant._

" _Ah," Mycroft sighs, observing the movement of fluorescent yellow jackets in the darkness. "I assume you've learnt something from this, at least."_

_Sherlock tilts his head in consideration and settles for a truth. "I won't do it again," he says, because he doesn't repeat his mistakes._

" _And the experiment?"_

_Sherlock fidgets, looking downwards. "I...don't know yet," he says, the words breathed out in an uncertain rush. "If. It worked."_

_Mycroft doesn't press further, instead stepping forwards to frown imperiously at the fire-fighters trampling Mummy's flower garden. Sherlock drops to his feet to examine a rose shiver apart into ashes._

_—_

_It takes Sherlock two weeks to declare the experiment a failure. He deletes it._

* * *

"Bit different from my day." A stranger, limping in after Mike. Excellent. Mike has delivered, possible flatmate with a bit of medical training, too. Useful.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock asks, and Mike, the predictable creature of habit he is, pats his jacket pockets and offers an apologetic shrug. Sherlock keeps his eyes down, waits _one, two_ —

"Here, use mine." The doctor — and _soldier_ , more interesting still — holds his phone out, leaning on an unnecessary cane.

Mike smirks, but Sherlock keeps his grin to himself as he asks, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

—

The cab moves smoothly towards Baker Street. There's a eighteen percent chance that John Watson will have been frightened off by their first meeting, an additional twenty-four percent chance that he will be scared off subsequently; unlikely that he'll be able to find a new flatmate within the week if John declines, in which case it becomes almost certain that Mycroft will come around with an "urgent matter, Sherlock" and the lease to a mysteriously affordable flat.

Sherlock moves in and spends the rest of the day in Barts.

—

John's curious but wary, quirking an eyebrow at the skull and the lab equipment scattered on the kitchen table; but his eyes turn interested when Lestrade comes round with a murder and he's quick to rise on his feet.

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock finds himself asking, and the resulting "Oh god yes" sends an inexplicable thrill down his spine.

—

No-one's ever killed for him before. It'd be easy enough to break into the evidence locker, slip the bullet from the bag and—

And do what? Objects don't contain emotions — that's absurd.

"Dinner?" Sherlock says instead, stumbling over the invitation.

"Starving," John grins, effortless.

—

John leaves cups of tea on the coffee table and food like lures in Sherlock's path, traps at every turn, and surely he must want something...

"Have to go in to the surgery," John says to him, shrugging on his jacket. "There's leftover Thai in the fridge, don't blow up anything."

Sherlock doesn't lift his head from his chair until the door shuts softly and then glares at the mug in front of him.

The tea's still warm and faintly sweet. It's surprisingly easy to savour it trickling down his throat.

—

"Sherlock!"

\- Islington, under the orange light of a sodium lamp.

\- The Thames, just off Waterloo Bridge.

\- The tracks near Kentish Town.

\- In an abandoned house in Kilburn.

" _John_."

\- A rooftop in Marylebone, slick with ice.

\- Dead-end alley, Brixton.

\- On a wild chase along a street in Hackney.

John is pale when they arrive at the flat and he has sixteen stitches down his side. "You're not going to go after the man on your own, are you?" he asks as he slides carefully into his chair. "Greg probably has the situation in hand."

Sherlock lets out a breath through his nose and says, very precisely, "You might have died."

"Yeah, well," John shrugs. "I didn't."

Sherlock swallows his irritation at the incredibly obvious statement. "The knife was meant for me," he says instead. "Do you realise it's the fourth time this month you've tried to save my life?"

"More than just 'tried', I should hope." John flashes his teeth before pausing in exasperation. "Wait, are you _keeping count_?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock says. "It's an important matter."

"Don't—don't do that." John says, a line slashing its way between his eyebrows. "Friends save friends' arses sometimes, that's just how it goes."

Sherlock insists on John going to bed and waits for the door to shut before letting the word "friend" flutter in his mouth.

* * *

_When Sherlock is six he sneaks into the Holmes library and picks the lock to the bookcase farthest away from the windows. The dust hits his lungs, making him sneeze, but Sherlock ignores it and reaches up at random for a leather-bound volume. (He's never understood his father's insistence on acquiring books and never looking at them again.)_

_He works through the shelves, idly skimming; and as the afternoon begins to fade, he chances upon the words "_ _Mode d'emploi du souhait_ _"._

_Mycroft says that wishes are pointless; Mycroft also believes in the written word. Sherlock worries his bottom lip between his teeth, puzzling this over, and finally decides an experiment might be in order._

_There's a triangle of lit candles settled inside chalky lines before Sherlock considers that perhaps Mycroft_ wants _to leave for school and settles on "I want someone who understands_ _."_

_He doesn't say, "I want a friend", because that sounds rather pathetic._

_At that, the flames deepen to a hot blue before the candles abruptly melt and fire begins to lick its way to the foot of Sherlock's bed._

* * *

Oh. _Oh_.

John.

* * *

"Sherlock, you all right?" John asks, his voice layered with warm concern.

"Why do you insist on talking?" Sherlock snaps, curled up on the sofa facing the wall. "I need to _think_ , and your useless chatter will not help."

"Ri-ight," John says slowly. "In one of your moods, are you? I'll just leave you to it."

John picks up his laptop and retreats to the kitchen; Sherlock can hear the slow click-clack of keys as John pecks out letters one by one on his keyboard.

John, steady John, with his practical jumpers and unassuming smile and an illegal handgun tucked underneath his shirt.

John, dependable John, who's lost the tremor in his hand and the psychosomatic limp and replaced it with infectious giggles at crime scenes.

John, who says "Brilliant" and "Fantastic" and "Amazing", and sounds like he means it.

Unusual — _too_ unusual, and of course he should have seen it as a lie, stupid, _stupid_ —

There must be a way to break this—whatever it is.

—

Sherlock is packing when John comes home, bewildered. "Hey, Sherlock, are you going somewhere?" John asks, voice steadily coming closer. "Mycroft kidnapped me again today, wants you to tell your mother—" He stops in front of Sherlock's open door. "Oh," he says. "Is there a case on?"

"No," Sherlock says shortly, glancing down to see that indeed he has two missed calls. "Research."

"Can I help?"

"No," Sherlock says again, bites his tongue as John rocks back a fraction, hurt. "Oh, don't be so ridiculous, John. I suspect this might take quite a bit of time, and you protest so much about leaving that beloved surgery of yours. Just let me do what I need to, why don't you?"

"Okay," John says, voice light, but his fingers are curling agitatedly. "Sure."

Sherlock listens to the telly turn on before he can look away from the doorway, and finds that the edges of his mobile have left a clear imprint on his palm.

—

The library is as quiet as he remembers but none of the books are what he's looking for.

Sherlock feels desperation rising up in his throat.

_—_

> hey hope research is going ok

> molly says she got that foot you wanted

> you are eating, right? it's actually not all 'just transport'

> sherlock?

—

It takes Sherlock a week to track down a rare books collector in Fulham. He pays far too much to stare at yellowed pages for an hour.

Afterwards, every bone in his body is craving a cigarette but his fingers won't hold still.

—

John's still at work when Sherlock comes back to 221B. Sherlock glances at the living room, a picturesque arrangement: their two chairs facing each other and possessions mingling comfortably.

Sherlock closes his eyes, mentally reconstructs the scene with everything of John's removed. The result is…unbalanced. Hollow. Imperfect.

 _Lies aren't worth living_ , Sherlock reminds himself. He swallows down a snarl and begins before he can change his mind.

—

If John chooses to leave, it would take under two hours for him to pack up and walk out.

Sherlock spends a moment too long staring at the military-neat corners of John's sheets, and then closes the door with an unwarranted slam.

—

"Hey, you're back—oh, Christ, what did you do to the kitchen?"

Sherlock doesn't look up from John's laptop and keeps his voice flat as he says, "Experiment."

"Great. You know this is going to go on our rent. And where were you all week, anyway? I texted you, but you never answered."

"Yes, trying to take over the role of being my keeper, are you? I'm not some dangerous animal that needs minding, nor am I helpless. I survived for thirty years before you came along." And his voice has turned too sharp on the last words, but Sherlock can't be bothered by that when the uncertainty of the situation is crushing into his ribcage.

 _Leave, John, or stay. But_ do _something._

"I am not—wow. I just. You. Okay." In his peripheral vision, Sherlock sees John throw his hands up before stalking upstairs.

Is this—

The sound of John's pacing is loud and frantic overhead, and it's only too easy to visualise him walking back and forth between his wardrobe and bag, methodically nestling delicate items in between neatly folded clothing. Swinging the bag over his right shoulder and walking out the door.

Sherlock would have to move out, too — the rent. (The taste of resignation, wholly unfamiliar on Sherlock's tongue.)

It feels like he's suffocating without a sound.

The footsteps stop very suddenly. There are loud protesting squeaks of box-springs: John, settling onto his bed. And then an uneasy stillness.

Sherlock waits for the moment to fracture like the fragile pause it is - but it holds. He blinks up at the ceiling and forcibly wills the tension out of his limbs.

John comes down in a stubborn silence and eats dinner alone, but he leaves a covered plate of almond chicken in the refrigerator.

—

"How's he doing?"

"I—don't know. He won't talk to me, won't eat, generally doesn't do much. Greg says he's even been turning down cases."

"Oh, dear."

A bit grimly, "All that's missing is the moody violin music."

—

Sherlock holds his bow poised over the bridge before launching into Rachmaninoff's Vocalise.

After two hours, John grabs his jacket and walks out the door.

After five, John comes back and makes a pot of tea.

—

Lestrade texts:

> it's been a while since we've seen you

and then

> even anderson admits it'd be good to have you around

Mycroft only texts:

> One month.  
>  M

Sherlock checks the calendar. It _has_ been a full month.

—

John's settled in his chair with the Guardian's crossword flattened in front of him. There's a cup of tea on the coffee table and he's humming something soft and catchy, tapping a well-bitten biro against his upper teeth.

Sherlock stops in the hallway, fingers clamped around the case file he'd nicked from Lestrade's desk some time ago. It's a cold case, witnesses scattered, only pictures and handwritten reports and fragmentary evidence sealed in clear plastic bags; he has the feeling it will lead to something a lot more dangerous.

John scribbles down a word and leans for his mug.

He might choose to stay like this, drifting into ordinary, uncomplicated life; or he might not.

Sherlock takes three steps forward before he can change his mind and thrusts the folder at John, who blinks and tilts his head up at him. "What's this?"

"You're the medical man," Sherlock shrugs, looking past John to an old acid stain on the floor. "What would you say about the fracture on the victim?"

"Oh," John says, a fleeting grin around the corners of his lips. "Um. So are we-"

"Yes," Sherlock says, a bit too quickly, and just barely manages not to wince.

"Good. That's...good."

"The case, John," Sherlock points out stiffly, letting out a breath; and John shakes his head fondly, reaches for a photograph.

"Well, it's hard to see, but it looks like there's this bruising here and here..."

Sherlock tries his hardest not to smile, but he might be failing.


End file.
